


Saudade

by tenandi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 19th Century England, Anachronistic references from the 1830s-1880s, Arranged Marriage, Church evangelists, Eventual Sexual Content, Forbidden Love, Infidelity, Inspired loosely by Edgar Allan Poe, Love and Loss, Plotty plots, Romance, Slowest Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-07 13:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21459127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenandi/pseuds/tenandi
Summary: Anthony Crowley, London’s most provocative horror writer, is married to his craft. Rumor has it that he’d eloped with Baron Lighbringer’s son before an unforeseen tragedy tore them apart. After relocating to the Oxfordshire countryside he becomes captivated with the man who reawakens his ability to love again: Pastor Gabriel’s neglected husband Aziraphale.-“Are you an angel sent here to set me to rights?” the writer sighed. “I'd see you soar above all others. I would cradle you more dearly than the ghost I've borne.” Crowley’s features shifted, moving from an expression of wonder to unrepressed desire. He stroked down the blonde’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Hello Aziraphale,” the name was a prayer on his lips.Saudade (Portuguese): the love and longing that remains after someone is gone
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Gabriel
Comments: 29
Kudos: 186





	1. Prologue: That Colder, Lowly Light

“You cannot mean the writer!” Madame Tracy practically shrieked. She fanned herself even as her eyes betrayed an indecorous desire for the rumor to prove true. “His tales are so twisted and macabre. Hardly decent!”

“The same,” Ms. Device confided conspiratorially. She glanced around the room as if hoping to be caught out, but no one paid them any mind. Two such notorious town gossips had the ill effect of cancelling each other out. They realized they worked better alone, and swiftly parted ways to distribute the news.

In less than ten minutes, the whole of the room was aware that notorious horror author Mr. Anthony J. Crowley would let his relative's abandoned estate, notably the gloomiest relic in Oxfordshire. Taking up residence at Infernus House would have been scandal enough, but his reclusive reputation and salacious novels seasoned aspersions on his character.

Mr. Evan Gabriel, an upstanding denizen and clergyman, wasted no time in voicing his opinion. “A disgrace,” he intoned haughtily. “Don’t you agree, dear?”

His husband, a sweet-tempered blonde who rarely spoke out of turn merely nodded. “As you say.” If anyone had been watching closely, they might have noticed the tiny crinkle of his nose as he secretly demurred. Some of the party, Mr. A.Z. "Aziraphale" (nee Fell) included, were just the tiniest bit excited about this development. For all the surrounding society, little of note seemed to happen in the country. Wasn’t this exhilarating?

Aziraphale would never admit to such proclivities, but the fantasy worlds he inhabited via his home library were much more stimulating than his daily life. He hadn’t secured a copy of Mr. Crowley’s works to date, but he made a mental note to do so as soon as possible. His imagination was already running away from him to envision a real author in their midst, and a revolutionary one at that.

The neighbors spent the rest of their evening speculating about the latest addition. It was said he would move within a fortnight.

-

Aziraphale was a man of simple pleasures, if not slight indulgences. When he wasn’t attending church to hear his husband’s sermons, he was often secluded in his library or taking walks in the countryside. He relished fine meals and erudite conversation, but when out from his husband’s watchful eye he snuck sugary breads from the kitchen and engaged in whispering campaigns with the household staff. He came from an upstanding family that was slightly lower on the social ladder than Mr. Gabriel’s, and his spouse would hardly let him forget it. Theirs was an arranged marriage, as many of the time were. It was not a particularly happy union.

When they first met, Aziraphale had been taken by his fiance’s handsome visage and worldly manner. Being a parson meant that they had the faith in common as well as many mutual acquaintances. Initially his future seemed bright, but he soon learned Mr. Gabriel was a dower man with little and less interest in intimacy or humor. He spent most of his time reading the Good Book and composing sermons, so dialogue between them was halting and infrequent. Sometimes Aziraphale wondered what it would be like to love someone passionately, but it seemed his chances for that had long passed by. ‘It is what it is,’ was an adage he lived by.

Fortunately he could take solace in his friends. Mr. Newton Pulsifer was an affable neighbor who shared Aziraphale’s interest in modern inventions. The two would spend their time in London to watch the most recent demonstrations, including the communicative telegraph and photographic camera. Sometimes Newt would volunteer for the hands-on portion of these presentations, but the technology often malfunctioned at the mere sight of him, leading many observers to believe these advances were a hoax.

Aziraphale also kept the company of Ms. Anathema Device despite Mr. Gabriel’s reservations. The woman was an outlier who did not attend service, but Aziraphale argued that he might turn her toward the faith to pacify his husband. (Of course, he had absolutely no intention of doing so, and admired Anathema’s independent sensibilities hugely.) Together they would trade beloved novels and poetry, if not certain occult materials. Known to few was the fact that Anathema practiced divination and alchemy. It thrilled and terrified Aziraphale, yet solidified their misfit bond that much further.

Given her informative resources, it was toward Anathema that Aziraphale first directed his questions about the impending arrival of Mr. Crowley.

“You say he’s coming here but I can’t imagine why,” the blonde said thoughtfully. “Who would leave the lively surrounds of London for the country, of all things? He must entertain such jolly and thrilling adventures in the city.”

Anathema was pretending to embroider a cushion and set it aside in favor of this topic. “Oh no, he’s led a terribly tragic life,” she countered. “Have you not heard the tale of his lost love? They say he was engaged to the heir of Baron Lightbringer.”

“Indeed?” Aziraphale questioned, his eyes shining with curiosity.

Anathema eyed him knowingly. “The gentleman’s son was called Lucas. He had a penchant for gambling and fast living. It’s said that the two were eloping as Mr. Crowley’s society was decidedly less than his paramour’s. They escaped in a stolen carriage and drove high into the Cumbrian Mountains. It was atop Scafell Pike that Lucas lost control of the horses and drove off the cliffside path.”

“They fell…” Aziraphale supplied in shock and awe. “And Lucas did not survive?”

The brunette shook her head as she returned to her cushion, picking at the loose threads. “That’s when Mr. Crowley began to write in earnest. His stories, once whimsical and charming turned grim and morbid. But his career took off because of it. I believe he’s published three bestsellers since the accident.”

“What a terrible way to achieve success!” Aziraphale lamented. “But if his profession has gained him such acclaim why retire here?”

Anathema rang a bell and waited for the servants to clear their abandoned tea service. “I hear fame does not agree with him,” she replied. “Those who have tried to gain his acquaintance have been resolutely rejected by the man. His estate here is secluded and remote by comparison. Perhaps he means to feed the angry specters of his past in solitude for the remainder of his life.”

“Oh dear, oh my,” the blonde fumbled as he stared anxiously out the window.

“You’ll want to meet him of course,” Anathema smiled slyly.

Aziraphale turned toward her with a matching grin. “How could I not?”


	2. Robes of Sorrow

The renovation of Infernus House was a quiet affair. Fewer servants than required were hired on, and an entire wing was left untouched at their master’s command. Lollygagging neighbors went out of their way to drive carriages up and down the nearby road hoping to catch a glimpse of the occupant, but none succeeded. Indeed, no one could even say if the man himself had yet arrived.

The only sign of activity was that of an old foreign woman who went simply by ‘Frau,’ and had the honor of acting as head cook for Mr. Crowley’s estate. She could be seen bustling to and from the market (On foot? And at her age!) but spoke little and less to those who inquired after her employer. It seemed he was resolute in his conceit to remain a mystery.

Madame Tracy, for one, was not having it. She revealed to Anathema her singular ploy to root the recluse out of his roost in the form of a private dinner invitation. She barely waited a week after his supposed arrival before issuing one by post. The days that went by without a response became unbearable to the widow who took every opportunity to disparage his rudeness in public.

“Not a word,” she would lament to anyone who asked. “The number of gentlemen in Oxfordshire has decidedly decreased by one.”

Mr. Gabriel was another casualty of insult when the evasive man failed to arrive at Sunday service, though Aziraphale tried to defend the fact that no one was certain he’d left London yet. It unnerved him that everyone was ready to judge without so much as an introduction. It seemed the whole town had already made up their minds about a perfect stranger.

He couldn’t help but take some satisfaction on the day that a dark black carriage was seen riding through the central square for the first time. Congregants were spilling out of the chapel when it rumbled by. Hushed voices remarked upon the incident.

“Is that…?”

“It must be!”

The blonde smiled smugly as Madame Tracy came to stand next to him. “Ah. Look who’s only just arrived. Perhaps your invitation will be the first he sees.”

The woman had the decency to look chagrined. “One can hope,” she agreed. “I’m only annoyed it’s taken this long. I am not a patient woman, Mr. Fell.”

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale reminded her. It had been five years since his wedding yet she refused to call him by his married name. He made a point of correcting her every time, but there was no real bite in it. She just smiled over at him and shrugged.

Madame Tracy would not have to wait much longer. Once physically present Mr. Crowley made a show of accepting her invitation by penning an extensive response. The poor widow poured over five hand-written pages before finding the answer she’d been looking for, buried deeply in lengthy prose.

“Goodness, what a discursive fellow. This must be the ostensible writer’s curse,” she muttered to herself, but was pleased all the same.

She quickly arranged a small party and issued summons to Ms. Device, Mr. Pulsifer, the Gabriels, and her eccentric neighbor Mr. Shadwell, an unrepentant hermit. Pulling out all the stops, she stocked her home with fine wines and port along with an entirely French cuisine for the occasion. Upon the evening in question she even went so far as to festoon the front entry with floral arrangements and garlands. Call her what you would, Madame Tracy was a generous and affable host underneath her lack of tact.

The guests arrived and settled into her sitting area with drinks in hand. Conversation was light and hesitant in expectation of the main event. Mr. Crowley had yet to make an appearance.

Aziraphale had been frustrated by his husband’s achingly slow preparations earlier, tying and retying his cravat at least three times before the blonde ushered him out the door and into peals of pouring rain outside.

“Really,” the brunette said sourly as his hair matted to his head. “I have perhaps the most important impression to make upon this heretic. And you know I hate to rush.” It turned out to be a game of ‘hurry up and wait’ in the end, but Aziraphale was still glad that they had made their destination before the writer. Some strange inclination in him wanted to see the man’s main entrance through the door, not unlike one of the suspenseful plays he enjoyed. He had an irresistible penchant for the dramatic.

Aziraphale could hardly focus on the nattering of his fellow guests, instead consulting a recent book of poetry he’d selected from Madame Tracy’s ample library. His fingers trembled over the pages of "Idylls of the King," barely reading the lyric passages. His foot beat out a staccato on the floor.

Aziraphale’s expectations were well-met when an ominous knock alerted the group of their much-anticipated visitor’s arrival. Madame Tracy’s butler had just started to approach the door when a thunderous crack of lightning inverted the night sky through the windows, shocking the guests into a tizzy of exclamations and swears. If they hadn’t already been on edge, the storm was new cause for trepidation. Aziraphale drowned his bourbon in one gulp and vice-gripped the arms of his chair as everyone tittered around him.

The door creaked open ominously to reveal a dripping figure cloaked in black. The rain behind his shadow came down in torrents. Stepping forth, the man peeled off his coat like a second skin and handed it to the butler without a word. For her part, Anathema couldn’t help but step back when Mr. Crowley finally entered the room, red hair ablaze in cast-off light from the hearth.

No one spoke, but made a study of him instead. The man was elegant and tall with a thin, wiry frame. His mouth turned down into a severe frown as his amber eyes flashed with inscrutable emotion. His damp hair flowed freely around his shoulders, a rakish style popularized by the French. He appeared as foreboding as he did unrepentant, an immense presence that filled the room and seduced its occupants.

Madame Tracy was the first to break the spell, approaching Mr. Crowley with a diminutive curtsey. “Mr. Crowley,” she addressed him formally. “I’m so glad you could make it. Please allow me to introduce you.”

The redhead’s eyes flitted from one person to the next as she announced their names and titles. When she reached Aziraphale the blonde stood abruptly, eyes transfixed on the author while clutching his book in front of him like a shield.

“And this is Mr. A.Z. Fell,” the woman said cheerfully, returning some semblance of normality to the room.

“Gabriel,” Evan corrected. The pastor’s eyes were on the writer as well, yet disclosed an entirely different regard. Hi suspicion was palpable.

Mr. Crowley ignored them both, instead crossing the room to stand before the blonde. “Tennyson,” he stated, as if it were a greeting.

Aziraphale stood mutely before he remembered the book in his hands, and held it out to the writer like a loaded gun. Crowley flipped through the pages as if every eye in the room wasn’t devouring his every move. He stopped at one passage and read it aloud, his voice deep and sonorous.

“While he gazed  
The beauty of her flesh abashed the boy,  
As though it were the beauty of her soul:  
For as the base man, judging of the good,  
Puts his own baseness in him by default  
Of will and nature, so did Pelleas lend  
All the young beauty of his own soul to hers.”

Time stood still as Crowley slid an adoring finger down the page, his eyes moving back to Aziraphale’s, unblinking like a mousetrap waiting to spring. Heavily, he slid the book back into the crook of the blonde’s arm and turned on his heel.

“Madame Tracy...may I implore you for a drink? The weather is most disagreeable and I’d warm myself with a snifter of brandy.”

Immediately his host unfroze and ushered the redhead toward the bar. The rest of the guests resumed their conversations as if nothing remarkable had happened, but Aziraphale stood transfixed on the spot.

“Are you alright?” Evan whispered, embarrassment rather than concern lacing in his tone. “You look pale…”

The blonde gripped Tennyson’s work tighter to hide his trembling hands. It was as if someone had knocked the air out of him yet restored it in one go. “Fine, yes,” he said in a high voice. “Just peckish.”

Evan rolled his eyes. “Of course. I’m sure we will be dining shortly. Do contain yourself, Aziraphale.”

The dinner itself went off well enough, though Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice Crowley barely ate. It was no wonder his figure tended toward slight. He felt Evan’s gaze on him from the side and looked down at the remnants of his meal instead.

“So Mr. Crowley,” the pastor’s voice rang out despite other ongoing discussions. “You must tell us your opinion on divine intervention. I’m preparing a sermon for next Sunday and could use some inspiration.”

The redhead stared straight back at him before taking a long drink from his glass. “I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly comment on that,” he returned evenly.

Aziraphale felt his husband tense beside him. “Well, I’m sure a man of faith such as yourself could greatly enlighten us?” It wasn’t a question at all, and everyone in the room knew it.

Crowley set down his drink and leaned back in his chair, draping himself over the frame. “I wasn’t aware I gave that impression,” he stated.

Evan’s hands fisted on the table and Aziraphale flinched. He caught the author’s gaze flicker over him and realized he’d been caught out.

“Am I to understand you will not join us at church?” the brunette asked in a warning tone.

If he was at all intimidated, Crowley didn’t show a lick of it. He tilted his head in a curious manner before a small smile tugged at the side of his mouth. “Have confidence in your leaders and submit to their authority, because they keep watch over you as those who must give an account... You don’t spare the rod when you tend your flock, I would venture, and I’ve never been much of a follower and even less, a sadist.”

Evan’s mouth contorted into a forced smile. “Hebrews and muddled Proverbs? I believe writers overly enjoy their little...inventions. My congregation has no need for fanciful interpretation, however. Do schedule an appointment if you ever require a refresher course on The Word.”

Perhaps the least likely individual to break the tension was one Newton Pulsifer, who had watched the entire exchange like a man on his way to the gallows. But from some deeper reservoir he summoned the courage to intervene. “As a respected writer, Mr. Crowley, I’m sure you would appreciate Madame Tracy’s collection. She keeps some rare tomes along with newer acquisitions, like your Tennyson.” Anathema shot the shy boy a glowing smile.

The hostess also beamed with eternal gratitude at the turn in conversation. “Of course! But no one knows it better than our own Mr. Fell. If you would be so good as to show our honored guest?”

Evan glared at the woman’s use of Aziraphale’s family name, but the blonde had already snapped to attention, rising from his chair. “My pleasure,” he said breathlessly. “If you’ll allow me to escort you, Mr. Crowley?”

The redhead stood slowly, his eyes still locked on Evan’s. He gave a conspiratorial wink at the sulking brunette before he moved to follow. “I’m sure we’ll continue this lively debate another time, pastor.” Evan frowned after him but it had no significant effect on the writer.

Crowley walked behind the blonde as they moved through various corridors and distanced themselves from the group. Secretly Aziraphale heaved a sigh of relief for the distraction. His husband’s evangelism tended to grate on his nerves. As they entered the private library, he found his troubles sliding off of him like water slides off of… Off of...

“Ducks!” the blonde said out loud before he could stop himself.

“What’s that?” the redhead asked, perplexed.

“That’s what water slides off of,” Aziraphale attempted by way of explanation, then quickly changed the subject. “Er, nevermind. We’ve reached our destination.”

Crowley hadn’t even looked around the room but was smiling directly at his tour guide. Aziraphale couldn’t help but be a little unnerved and tried to hide his flush by indicating toward the shelves. The writer took his eyes off of him reluctantly to peer at the collection. Aziraphale was glad for it considering he’d just seen the first real smile from the man since his arrival. It radiated warmth and admiration, feelings that had been scantly been directed toward him in recent years.

Briskly, he cleared his throat and directed Crowley toward Madame Tracy’s rare books. “I’m sure you’re familiar with most of the titles,” he said.

Crowley tilted his head to examine the spines while Aziraphale considered the wavy red hair falling over his bony shoulder. He had the strangest desire to reach out and finger-comb it back into place. Catching himself, he took a few sideways steps to create more distance between them. The author didn’t seem to notice but appraised him after a few moments.

His golden brown eyes appeared to drink in the blonde, leaving an exposed feeling in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach. “Absolutely marvelous,” Crowley intoned. “Exquisite.”

“The...the collection, yes, of course,” Aziraphale agreed in a rush. He couldn’t be sure since Crowley bent his attention back to the books, but he could have sworn the man had added, “That too.”

Growing braver, the blonde suddenly realized this was the first opportunity he’d had to address the writer privately. He didn’t want to miss the chance to know him better.

“Mr. Crowley,” he began.

“Anthony,” the correction was more of an invitation.

“Oh,” Aziraphale became flustered all over again. “If you like, certainly. Please call me Aziraphale, if you prefer.”

Crowley turned toward him and took exactly one step forward. It was enough to make the blonde’s hands tremble, so he banished them behind his back.

“Your name is rather unusual,” the redhead remarked. “Is it of literary origin?”

Aziraphale intertwined his traitorous fingers. “Bit of a biblical mashup I think,” he answered. “My parents were...creative.”

“Ah,” Crowley replied with great interest. “Artists?”

“M-my mother was, yes,” the blonde stuttered. “My father was a woodworker.”

“Hmmm. And yourself? Do you dabble in the creative arts Aziraphale?” The sound of his name on that tongue was luscious.

“I’m more of a consumer,” Aziraphale countered, perhaps too abruptly. “But I’ve...I’ve tried my hand at poetry now and then.” He wandered toward a large window and stared out nervously for a while, watching a goldfinch roost in a nearby tree. The rain had lifted at last, leaving behind a stunning sunset. “Mr. Gabriel doesn’t like my head up in the clouds. I tether those impulses as best I can.”

“Tether,” the writer said thoughtfully. “A rope or chain that restricts movement. That’s an interesting choice of words, Aziraphale.”

He hadn’t said much, but the insight was no less profound for the blonde. The bird he’d been observing took flight from her nest as if on cue, because she could. Still, something inside of him was quarantined out of habit. “Duty is more important, don’t you think?” he asked suddenly. He hated how indoctrinated he sounded.

“Duty,” Crowley repeated. “That’s something you owe to other people. Have you nothing for yourself, Aziraphale?”

The blonde became frustrated with this enigmatic prodding. The writer’s questions and observations hit too close to home. “I’m not some character in a book,” he snapped. His lower lip pouted despite his best effort to conceal it. “Is that how you see everyone around you? One-dimensional heroes and damsels waiting for a plot to fulfill them?”

“No, not a character in a book,” Crowley countered dreamily. Somehow he’d closed the distance between them again. When Aziraphale looked over his shoulder the redhead was practically occupying the same space. It was unnerving. How could one man be so potent?

Aziraphale relaxed despite his proximity, leaning on the window frame lest his bones turn to jelly.

“For you...some verse,” Crowley continued as if lost in thought. “A sonnet I should think.” He stared past the blonde out the window. A heavy exhalation escaped his lungs as he pressed one hand up to the fogging glass. He began to recite.

“When to the sessions of sweet silent thought  
I summon up remembrance of things past,  
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,  
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste.”

Aziraphale was enraptured. Of course he knew Shakespeare like it was written on his heart, and remembered reading that particular sonnet until the words burned. He stared at Crowley, unable to look away. The story of the man’s lost love came back to him like a forgotten melody.

The redhead sniffed suddenly, pulling himself out of his reverie. “Ah, no. That one belongs to someone else.”

“Anthony…” Aziraphale began guiltily.

The redhead smiled weakly. “Forgive my musings,” he said in a soft voice. “Sometimes I get carried away. Perhaps your husband is right about me.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice the absolute contrast between the writer’s interactions with Evan versus himself. Crowley could be unrelenting and even aggressive when challenged, but he could also be infinitely idealistic and...soft was the word that came to mind. The realization made him feel protective.

“Don’t listen to Mr. Gabriel,” he said sharply. “He has no idea what he’s talking about.”

Crowley chuckled and moved as if he was about to place a hand on the blonde’s arm, but thought better of it. “Who does?” he replied. And then, “Thanks for showing me the library, Aziraphale. It’s been...inspirational. Perhaps one day you’ll do me the honor of sharing your own writing.”

The writer excused himself and left Aziraphale where he stood. Slowly, the blonde lifted his hand to the window, settling it over the revenant of Crowley’s on the glass. A shudder went through him at the cool sensation, and perhaps even more so, at the idea that he could touch something that the writer left behind.


	3. All I Lov’d—I Lov’d Alone—

Crowley was only sixteen when he’d met Lucas. True to the rumors he’d come from a lowly family, mere tennents on the vast Lightbringer estate. Yet as boys Crowley and Lucas were allowed to play together. Even the Baron, in all of his entitlement and obsession with position, could not deny his only son a friend, and it seemed harmless at the time.

What the Baron did not know was that as the boys grew older they spent less and less time competing at the fishing hole or playing tag in the stables. Instead they found coveted nooks and crannies around the grounds to practice their youthful urges, and came to find themselves very much in love. The first time they were together was awkward yet incredible, fumbling and ecstatic. Their mutual limerance seduced them into a secret union that was only theirs to keep.

When Lucas came of age he learned that his father meant to engage him to an heiress in another county, one that would ensure the fortune and security of the Lightbringer family. Though Lucas bitterly refused, his father made it clear that there were no other options for the young man. It was that or disinheritance, and Lucas being the privileged, defiant, questioning soul that he was raged against the ultimatum with everything he had. It was Crowley who suggested they run off together, somewhere distant and clandestine where neither of their families could ever find them. They would live as paupers, but the happiness they made together would give them sustenance. It was a childish dream, but they were children after all.

In hindsight, without the accident, they would have surely broken at some point. Perhaps when moldy bread crusts abated, or when Crowley finally threw out his back day laboring. This eventuality was not allowed to come to pass however, because their intrepid spirits spurred them on from one destination to the next. It was Crowley’s idea to venture north, and further north, up into the treacherous mountains. He blamed himself for everything.

The whinney of phantom horses could wake him from the deepest dream, even years after. They had been drinking too much and laughing too hard as the carriage wound around a steep and narrow bend in the path. Crowley could never bring himself to work past the memory of Lucas’ eyes gone wide and glassy, a scream ripping from his throat before the inevitable fall…

Crowley woke up in a sheen of sweat, his hands gone numb and clammy. One would assume after twenty years that the horror of the moment would fade, but it was the same shock to his nervous system every time. A trauma like broken skin that could not be healed, only bound tighter and ignored in the light of day.

The staff had grown used to his intermittent cries and largely ignored them. They were loyal and proven, having been purposefully relocated from Crowley’s London residence to his new abode. The Frau, known to him as Frau Perchta, was central to his existence, a sort of replicant mother for the one who threw him out once he tried to return home. Unknown to him, his parents had been explicitly threatened by the Baron. Crowley just assumed his parents hated him for his part in the tragedy, because what else would an eighteen year old boy believe?

He’d moved on and found his way in the world. After his parents died he learned of an ancestral home, one that had been in possession of his estranged uncle. That relative had done much better for himself than his brother, Crowley’s father, and capitalized on the growing rail system to make his fortune. Having no other heirs, he designated Crowley as the benefactor, gaining Infernus House in the process. By then the dashing redhead had made a name for himself as a relatively well-known author, and ignored the home in favor of London’s high life. But it was there he found himself more and more isolated from his peers. No one could relate to his life experiences, and certainly not to his singular loss. Crowley grew more bitter with each financial success, wholly resigning from social affairs in his early thirties. It was eight years later when the pressure finally sank him, and he decided to quit the city altogether. Better to go it alone, submerge into the commiseration of dead poets and the solace of his own writing. He found he much preferred limited company.

There was the Frau, a German immigrant he’d rescued from a languishing career as a washing woman. Hastur, a prison guard turned footman who’d reprieved Crowley from more than one night in the drunk tank. Dagon, his maid now, but a prostitute in a former life. Lastly, there was Mr. Mot, his butler. Even Crowley didn’t know the extent of his impenetrable background, but he’d met the man while playing cards in Frankfort and was set to lose the entirety of his fortune irrevocably. Instead of holding him to his bets, Mr. Mot asked only to serve the young man for the rest of his days. Crowley accepted these terms, never questioning the motives of what would become his most faithful friend.

All in all, it was a motley crew and unsystematically assembled, but still one that Crowley cherished and would not be parted from. His family was made up of the people he chose, rather than those who were thrust upon him. That was his definition of freedom.

-

Freedom was harder to define for Aziraphale, who rode back home in the carriage with Mr. Gabriel after the party. He kept thinking of the goldfinch and the writer’s haunting words ‘Have you nothing for yourself, Aziraphale?’

His husband must have sensed the subject of his preoccupation as he cleared his throat and began to lambaste the man in question.

“Absolutely scandalous,” he tutted. “Mr. Crowley is worse than I’d imagined. A heathen, to be sure. But also an upstart. I feel he’s going to have a bad influence on our community.”

When Aziraphale didn’t say anything back Evan continued. “I want you to stay away from that man,” he commanded. This got the blonde’s attention, who inclined his head away from the window with delayed interest.

“What? Why?”

“Did you hear a word I just said?” Evan huffed. “That man is dangerous and corrupt. He is a detriment to our flock and will drag others down with him. You are to have nothing to do with Mr. Crowley. Is that clear?”

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open. “You really think he’s dangerous?” he asked.

Mr. Gabriel smiled proudly as if he’d deduced something no one else could. “I do,” he said severely.

The blonde suppressed a smirk as he looked out the carriage window. A secret thrill shot down his spine as he indulged in the idea of spending more time with the writer. His stomach flipped and he swallowed a lump in his throat. The ‘dangerous’ writer.

-

Aziraphale came to call upon Mr. Crowley only days later. Mr. Gabriel had left for business in town and naturally the blonde took advantage of his absence to satisfy his ongoing curiosity. He’d always wanted to see inside of Infernus House anyways, but now he’d get to see it in light of its occupant. What kind of dark lair did the author keep?

He rapped upon the doorframe of the English Baroque structure after admiring it from afar. He knew there must be upwards of fifty private rooms inside, and its ballroom had been proclaimed one of the most beautiful in the county before the residence was abandoned. He expected to find it in disrepair but Mr. Crowley’s servants had obviously seen to the exterior restoration and were keeping the grounds in excellent shape. He was still musing about the house when the large front door opened to reveal a rather domineering man on the other side.

“How can I help you, sir?” the butler asked, his voice a baritone. Aziraphale thought briefly that the stage could have made use of him. The antagonist of Faust was one role that came to mind.

“Mr. A.Z. Fell, er...Gabriel, I mean. I thought I’d drop by to see Mr. Crowley if he is available. Is he? Available, I mean. I know I’ve just shown up with no-”

The butler cut him off with a raised hand, beckoning him inside. “Please wait here.”

Aziraphale walked into the foyer and clasped his hands behind his back as he admired the interior. A great staircase under an unlit chandelier took up most of the entryway. Behind it large stained-glass windows captured the exterior light, bathing the space in luminous colors. It was unusual, to say the least. The previous occupants must have had a proclivity toward the church, ironically enough.

It didn’t take long for the butler to reappear and bade him to follow behind. Aziraphale observed everything along the way, empty sitting rooms and austere portraits, darkened hallways and large oriental rugs. The decor was quite eclectic, a mix of eastern and western sensibilities. At last they arrived before a large mahogany door that the butler propped open. Aziraphale waltzed inside, assuming it was a formal reception room (although so far from the front entrance as to be puzzling). He’d only heard the door close behind him when he glimpsed his host and measured his surroundings more fully.

“Is this your bedroom?” the blonde asked in absolute shock. His eyes lingered over the four-post bed and the tangle of bedclothes left unceremoniously on top. Around the room were all the other hallmarks of domestic space, soft slippers on the floor, a dressing gown draped over a large chair, and some personal grooming supplies jostling one another for room on the powder table.

He then looked closely at the man himself, who hadn’t seemed to have heard him. Mr. Crowley’s hair was loose and curling around his face which was zeroed in on a few pages of writing in front of him. His clothes were more a suggestion of attire: maroon fall front trousers that settled high on his naked waist, and barely covered in a silk black robe that was falling off one shoulder. His feet were bare.

Aziraphale blushed furiously, and headily considered quitting the room except that his presence did not seem to have registered.

“Mr. Crowley?” he ventured as he took a step forward, concern creasing his features.

At last the redhead looked up, a serene expression playing over his face. “Aziraphale,” he said warmly. “Do come in.”

“Yes, um...perhaps we should relocate to a more appropriate venue?” the blonde said nervously. His eyes couldn’t help but linger on the writer’s exposed collarbone. The man was truly a vision, a composition of delectable muscle and bones.

“Hm?” Crowley asked distractedly. He was finishing off a line of script as he sat at a small writing desk. Growing obviously frustrated with his work, a hand drifted up to yank his hair back. His eyes closed and he leaned back in his chair, completely unaware that his pose mirrored the classic Barberini Fawn sculpture. Aziraphale couldn’t help but wet his lips.

“I see you are quite occupied,” the blonde tried to recover. “Perhaps I’ll leave you to it.” He began to turn on his heel but the sound of a heavy chair scraping over the floor gave him pause.

“No, no,” the writer objected. “I was just finishing up. Come, let’s have some tea.”

Aziraphale watched as Crowley overtook him to lead them from the room. He turned around and walked backwards as he tugged on his robe, tightening it ever so slightly. Aziraphale couldn’t decide if he was relieved or disappointed.

“Usually I’d call for service,” the redhead explained. “But I’ve given most of the staff the day off. You met Mr. Mot, I presume. I think he’s the only one about at present.”

He turned back around to open the door and strolled into the adjoining hallway, his strides long and confident.

“You give your staff time off?” Aziraphale asked curiously. Mr. Gabriel had never given more than a half-day at most. He strongly believed that servants grew dull without extensive and continuous work.

The redhead chuckled. “Not really much to do around here,” he admitted. “I keep to myself mostly, and company is rare.” He shot a knowing look at the blonde.

Aziraphale suddenly stumbled over the edge of a rug and was about to land on his face when Crowley caught him, the two negotiating shared gravity as balance was restored. The save seemed miraculous given the writer had been at least three feet ahead, but Aziraphale wasn’t complaining. He couldn’t help the flush of excitement when he realized he’d been boxed into Crowley’s strong arms.

“Goodness,” the blonde exclaimed. “Thank you Mr. Crowley.”

“Anthony,” his host reminded him.

Aziraphale stared up into his golden eyes, entranced. “Yes, yes of course,” he agreed. The redhead smiled at him before relinquishing his hold and resuming his trail toward the kitchen, which they arrived at presently.

“Can I offer you some breakfast?” Crowley asked as he prepped a heavy bottomed pan with butter.

“Oh dear, Anthony, it’s the middle of the day!” Aziraphale protested.

“Is it?” the redhead looked genuinely surprised. He looked around the room as it to seek out context clues. “I’ve been writing for hours. Can’t even remember if I slept.”

The blonde sat gingerly on a stool near the prep counter and frowned. “You really must take care of yourself, dear,” he chided.

Crowley arched one elegant eyebrow before grabbing an apple out of the fruit basket in the center of the table. He bit into it while steadily maintaining eye contact with his guest. Aziraphale shifted in his seat as the juice ran down the man’s sharp jawline.

“Better?” his host dared.

“Quite,” Aziraphale squeaked out, crossing his legs. “Tell me...is your current project another spooky tale?”

“Spooky?” the redhead couldn’t help but laugh as he prepared their tea. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

The blonde watched with interest as the gentle mirth left the writer’s face. It was almost as if he’d been transported back into the narrative. “Would you tell me about it?”

“Hm,” Crowley assented. He handed Aziraphale a cuppa while tending to a pan of frying eggs. “It’s about guilt driving the narrator to insanity.”

“Oh, oh dear,” his guest cringed. “How shocking! Has the main character committed some dreadful sin?”

Crowley glanced over his shoulder, reading the blonde’s barely contained excitement underneath a layer of prudish denial. He plated his breakfast and came to lean against the counter a few inches from his guest. He stared down at him with electric eyes.

“The most dreadful sin of all,” he intoned, spearing his eggs with a fork. Aziraphale watched the metal instrument slide into the redhead’s mouth and come out clean, the sound of his teeth against silver sharp upon withdrawal.

“You mean...murder?” Aziraphale asked conspiratorially. His fingers were digging into the counter now.

“Of the most vile means,” Crowley supplied. “Do you read books like mine, Aziraphale?”

The blonde tittered, his eyes darting back and forth from his tea to the redhead before him. “Oh I can’t say I do, though I’ve heard your stories are absolutely splendid. Probably would give me nightmares, I imagine. Does that happen to you?”

“Nightmares…” Crowley looked away and Aziraphale instantly regretted the question. “Yes, I am plagued by them, but not from my own content. No, I’m afraid bad dreams are my oldest companion. Real life is much more frightening and traumatic than fictional tales about monsters and demons.”

Aziraphale blinked away the beginnings of a tear in one eye. He didn’t dare ask about the accident, but he was certain his host was referring to it. “I’m not one for darker tales...but I’d very much like to read yours,” he recovered.

Crowley brightened visibly and hurriedly finished his breakfast. “If you insist,” he said. His plate dropped with a clatter as he grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, leading him down a few twisted corridors and landing before an ornate set of doors. He pushed them open and steered the blonde inside, only dropping his hand to place two palms on his shoulders.

“Voilà,” he whispered into the shell of his ear.

Aziraphale gasped at the immense library before him. It made Madame Tracy’s collection look like a starter set. He walked forward in a daze as he navigated through the shelves, stopping to touch certain titles reverently before moving on. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Crowley startled him, appearing suddenly from behind a large stack.

“Let’s see...mine are in here somewhere,” he breathed. Crowley slid his fingers over the spines before resting on a thin title. “Ah, yes. Here’s the first one I wrote.”

Aziraphale took the proffered book and read it aloud. “The Devil’s Footman. What’s it about?”

Crowley stood over his shoulder, his breath ghosting over the back of the blonde’s neck. “It’s a modern adaptation of the Greek myth. You’ve heard of Charon and the river Styx?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Say no more. I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“Of course not!” the writer feigned offense at the suggestion. “You’re welcome to take it with you. It’s a longer read.”

Aziraphale smiled brightly before it practically melted off of his face. Taking the book home wasn’t an option. “It’s just that...well I couldn’t possibly. Mr. Gabriel, you know. I don’t think he’d like it.” He didn’t bother to also explain that his husband expressly forbid any contact with Crowley. Better keep that to himself.

Crowley looked appraisingly at his guest. “Indeed not.”

“But could I…” the blonde went on, “Would it be too much trouble if I read it here? Perhaps I could come back in the afternoons? I promise I wouldn’t interrupt your work. You wouldn’t even know I was here!” His voice turned desperate and imploring, but a simple smile from the redhead silenced him.

“You are always welcome here,” Crowley replied. “Day or night. I’ll let Mr. Mot know that you can have the run of the house anytime you like.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale chirped cheerfully. “Oh, thank you! I do look forward to our arrangement.”

Crowley bit his lower lip, drawing the blonde’s attention to his pink mouth. Something in the subtle action tugged deliciously at Aziraphale’s conscience. Oh, he was being wicked indeed. Setting up secret meetings with the writer and now staring lasciviously at him like he came bundled with the deal. How easy it would be to pull the redhead’s chin down, to run his hands over and under the smooth black silk of his robe. He blinked, attempting to banish any untoward thoughts before backing away.

“I should really probably get on,” he said uneasily. “Forgive me for taking up so much of your time. You are too generous.”

Crowley watched his every move, making the blonde feel like a rodent being singled out by a snake on the hunt. “Yes, well,” he said finally. “It’s my pleasure. I suppose I’ll see you again soon, Aziraphale.”

His guest nodded, delirious at the thought.


	4. Not Half so Happy in Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane Austen shoutout near the end

Mr. Gabriel banged his fist on the pulpit as he sermonized against the temptations of Satan. Ironically, Aziraphale had just been thinking about three nights past, when after leaving a certain author’s house he was immensely relieved to remember he and his husband kept separate bedrooms. Temptations, indeed. The pounding at the lectern continued for another twenty minutes, and then the congregants were graciously released back into their natural habitats. Aziraphale went all too willingly, knowing that he planned to visit Crowley immediately after.

Unfortunately he ran into Anathema as she navigated over from the market. She was supposed to be serving as his cover story, but he hadn’t bothered to share that with her yet. They had only just clasped hands when Evan appeared behind him.

“Ah, Ms. Device!” the pastor sneered. “We missed you again today.”

“Is it Sunday again already?” the brunette asked coquettishly. “Goodness how these days fly by!”

“And what exactly will the two of you occupy yourselves with today?” Evan asked suspiciously. Anathema’s brows raised but Aziraphale was already interceding.

“We have lunch plans,” he said hurriedly. “Then I suppose we’ll take a stroll.”

Mr. Gabriel regarded his husband’s round stomach and sniffed. “Well thank goodness for that. You could use it. I’ll see you at home for supper.” His parting remark was more of a command than a pleasantry.

Anathema watched him go before rounding on her friend. “Am I forgetting something?” She sensed the guilt lining the blonde’s features and frowned. “I didn’t think so. Care to tell me what’s going on? And before you say no, let me remind you that you dragged me into this. It had better be good.”

“Ah, yes well…” Aziraphale’s eyes shot heavenward, oscillating between two truths and a lie. He settled for a mix of both. “After meeting Mr. Crowley the other day he invited me to peruse his library, but I’m afraid my husband doesn’t generally approve of his character. I had hoped to take Anthony, er, Mr. Crowley up on the offer, with some minor obfuscation where Mr. Gabriel is involved. You don’t mind terribly, do you?”

Anathema looked like she’d just been given a prize. “You’re serious?” she practically shouted. “You managed to strike up a friendship with the elusive Mr. Crowley? Oh, but you’re so lucky! I hardly spoke to him at the gathering the other day… You must tell me everything. Is he as insidious as he seems? Did he mention the incident?” She had a million questions bubbling to the surface, forcing Aziraphale to hold up a staying hand.

“I would be very happy to share everything I know,” he interrupted, “But I’m afraid if I linger much longer I might miss my window of opportunity. Shall I meet with you tomorrow instead?”

“You had better just,” the brunette warned with a huge smile on her face.

After parting, Aziraphale immediately rushed over to Infernus House. He had perhaps a couple of hours before Evan would expect him home. After rapping at the door for a few minutes it finally opened to reveal, not the butler, but the withered woman he’d heard was called “Frau.” Taken aback, the blonde stuttered over his explanation for the visit, and the Frau seemed wildly unimpressed.

“The Master is busy,” she said in a thick German accent.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale hurried on, “I don’t need to see him directly. If you’d just ask Mr. Mot you’ll learn it’s all aboveboard. I’m just here for the library and-”

“No visitors,” she groused. “The Master is writing.”

Aziraphale dug one hand into his curls, pulling relentlessly. “No, see if you’d just ask Mr. Mot-”

He broke off when the long shadow of the butler preceded his appearance at the door. “Mr. Fell,” the man intoned darkly. “Please come inside.”

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale corrected as he side-eyed the Frau. She shrugged disinterestedly before shuffling off. “I remember my way,” he started to explain, but the butler shook his head.

“Mr. Crowley is in the study,” he said, crossing both arms. Aziraphale knew instinctively not to argue with the man, and followed his direction to the appropriate room. Once delivered, the blonde pushed at the heavy door and made his way inside.

If Crowley had appeared half put-together earlier that week, he was now an absolute wreck in comparison. The redhead was lying sideways on a fainting couch and morosely clutching a handful of paper. For all of the dark smudges on him, it looked as though he’d lost a fight with an ink pot. Deep bags hung under his dull eyes, and as for his apparel...Aziraphale’s face went red at the sight. It seemed he was very likely nude other than a dark blue sheet wrapped loosely around his body. For all that, Crowley failed to notice he had company, which Aziraphale was beginning to realize was not unusual for the obsessive author.

“Anthony,” the blonde called softly as he drew near. “Are you well?” He noticed a sheen of sweat on the redhead’s forehead. When he made it to the couch he had to navigate through a blockade of empty bottles.

Crowley stared around the room without making eye contact. “Is it you?” he asked morosely. “I knew you’d come eventually.”

Aziraphale sat gingerly on the edge of the couch and reached out to take one of the writer’s hands. The one holding his scribbled papers fell open and littered the pages to the ground.

“Anthony’s it me, Aziraphale,” he tried and failed to stir a sense of recognition in the man.

Crowley struggled in undeniable confusion. “I can feel him here with me.” He struggled to tap over his heart. “I keep him here always.”

“Sh,” Aziraphale quieted him, seeing no sense in trying to rationalize with the man. “Right now all that matters is your health. I think you are quite ill.”

A tortured laugh echoed out of the writer’s chest. “He's come to watch me die, then? That’s just. Perhaps he can escort me to the gates of Hell himself.”

Aziraphale fretted as he dabbed the sweat from his friend’s forehead with a handkerchief. “I’ve come to do no such thing. You are being very dramatic and quite silly. Now then, let’s get you some water and try to break this fever.” He stood to begin his ministrations when he found himself yanked down roughly by the redhead’s surprising strength.

“My love,” Crowley breathed, cradling him into his arms. “How I adored you. I set my heartbeat by your own until the last. How can it keep beating?"

Aziraphale faltered over their unexpected proximity. Certainly he had no intent of taking advantage of his friend, nor staying wrapped in his embrace while listening to complete nonsense, but...he found his body go lax, if only for a moment.

“Anthony, you’re not making any sense,” the blonde said gently. He tilted his head up and made eye contact with Crowley for the first time. The golden brown eyes drilled into his own and a flash of recognition flickered through them.

“Are you an angel sent here to set me to rights?” the writer sighed. “I'd see you soar above all others. I would cradle you more dearly than the ghost I've borne.” Crowley’s features shifted, moving from an expression of wonder to unrepressed desire. He stroked down the blonde’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Hello Aziraphale,” the name was a prayer on his lips.

Before he could do anything regrettable, Crowley’s eyes drifted shut. He appeared to be out cold. Aziraphale moved to extract himself but hadn’t gone far enough when the door opened behind him. The blonde whipped his head around to find a slight woman with auburn hair and expressive blue eyes looking purposefully at him.

“Hm,” she paused to consider his awkward situation. Instead of saying anything judgemental, she moved to help Aziraphale up from the sofa.

“He gets like this three or four times a week,” she explained. “I hope you’re not overly offended.” She started to pick some of the discarded bottles.

“Er, no, not offended,” Aziraphale answered. “Just...concerned. Is it a flu of some kind?”

The woman snorted and put her hand on her hip while holding up a liquor bottle. “It’s drink, that’s all. A bloody ocean of it. He tortures himself, you know.”

The blonde suddenly felt put out by such intimate situation when he didn’t even know her name. “I’m sorry Miss…?”

“I’m Dagon,” she replied. “Nothing more or less. No ‘miss’ if you know what’s good for you. I’m no lady.”

Aziraphale found his tongue twisting as he struggled to calculate a response, but she was already waving a hand at him. “You’re that Aziraphale chap, then? Yes, I see what he meant.” She busied herself with gathering up loose pages and trying to rearrange them in numerical order.

“What who meant?” the blonde prompted. He saw her conspicuous glance toward his left hand and how she abruptly shook her head.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all, don’t mind me. If you’re here for the library you might as well get on. He’ll be out for hours.”

Aziraphale nodded, torn between reading Crowley’s works and staying with the man himself as he convalesced. He knew there was nothing practical he could do to aid in the recovery process, and wisely convinced himself to use what little time he had with the writer’s books. It was a different way of getting to know him, after all.

-

Aziraphale had just enough time to read the first third of Crowley’s book, and it was intensely fascinating, though he was often distracted by thoughts of the author himself. He ruminated on the redhead's words. Had he been speaking about Lucas initially? Aziraphale hated to think of his friend in pain, still mourning the loss of his former love. He stared into the fireplace until a clock chimed, alerting him of the late hour.

He didn’t want to hurry on, but he knew better than to risk his husband’s wrath. Before leaving, he couldn’t help but drift by the study where he knew the writer was interred. Glancing around the empty hall first, he quietly opened the door to make sure Crowley was still breathing, at the very least.

The room had been significantly tidied, but Crowley was still sprawled over the fainting couch. The blue sheet which had once covered him was now barely concealing his dignity. Aziraphale let out a soft moan unintentionally, his hand flying up to stuff it back into his mouth. Taking a few tentative steps forward, he was compelled to tuck his friend in properly. What if there was a chill in the middle of the night? He granted himself permission to begin readjusting the thin sheet, reluctantly covering up sharp planes of skin and bone. A few fingers dipped beneath the fabric unintentionally, stroking against the soft hair on Crowley’s chest.

Crowley whined in his sleep but didn’t rouse, seeming to snuggle into the warmth the blonde had trapped in around his body. Aziraphale looked down at him with infinite tenderness.

“My dear boy,” he murmured. “Must you be so hard on yourself?” The writer looked more peaceful in slumber than he’d ever seen him. He felt his lips parting and found himself sinking down before he could reign in the impulse, pressing a swift kiss to a now thankfully dry and cool forehead. At such close range he could distinguish the childlike spray of freckles on Crowley’s face. He wanted to chase each one with his lips, cataloging the imperfections that were perfect as far as he was concerned. The unbidden thought was enough to force him up and away. He’d lingered here long enough.

He caught sight of Mr. Mot on his way out and felt the butler’s scrutiny upon him. Aziraphale gleaned that his vigilance was out of loyalty and protectiveness. He had led the blonde to his master during his hour of need, after all. Perhaps the butler was measuring Aziraphale’s mettle. Would he persist in his acquaintance with the writer after all he’d seen?

Aziraphale flashed the imposing man a defiant look as he opened the door. “I shall see you again soon, Mr. Mot. Please look after our dear Mr. Crowley.” He rejoiced inwardly at the infinitesimal smile that broke the butler's generally somber countenance.

-

Aziraphale’s home was in absolute chaos. The servants were running around like mad while Mr. Gabriel barked out orders and seethed critically over any imperfection he came across. The blonde had hardly entered the threshold when he knew exactly what was wrong.

“She’s coming?” he asked fearfully.

Evan stared down at him from the landing, his hands gripping the wooden rail as if to break it. A singular nod sealing their mutual fate. Aziraphale cradled his head in one hand as the servants dodged around him, some carrying out carpets to be beaten while others swept the floors and dusted every available surface.

“Don’t just stand there!” he heard his husband shout. “Look sharp, Aziraphale! We have minutes, maybe less!”

The blonde hurried up to his bedroom and threw on a fresh set of evening wear, cursing under his breath with every delayed movement. There wasn’t time and his boots wanted polishing. His curls were a tangled mess after lying on the couch with the writer. He nearly tripped over his own feet as he rushed from the room, shouting at a servant to fetch his cufflinks. He barely put himself together as the house staff lined up in the front hallway, each looking more ruffled than the next. Mr. Gabriel walked down the line, adjusting bonnets and picking lint off of jackets.

Aziraphale joined the line, a bit breathless as his husband ran an appraising gaze over him. “It’ll have to do,” the pastor grumbled. “Next time don’t cut it so close. You know at least one Sunday a month we should expect-”

A loud knock came at the front door, eliciting a few gasps that translated into stiff-backed sobriety under Evan’s scrutiny. He made a grand show of pulling back his own shoulders before opening the door, intending to greet this guest personally. The door opened wide to reveal a thin, severe looking woman with pale blue eyes. She looked none too impressed at the general state of the world around her, but then she’d always had the face of a person left constantly underwhelmed by unrealistic expectations.

For his part, Mr. Gabriel bowed low and held out a hand to take hers, kissing it lightly.

“My patroness, Lady Beatrice de Tartarus! You honor us with your visit!”


	5. A Spell Upon His Soul

Lady Beatrice was used to getting what she wanted when she wanted it. As of that moment, she was demanding an account of the strange writer who had dared trespass upon Oxfordshire, one of many realms under her protection.

“Is he quite godless?” she asked with an artful gleam in her eye. The party was sitting at the large dining table while more servants than strictly necessary flitted around them, seeing to her every need.

“Irredeemably,” Mr. Gabriel affirmed. “Writes horror novels, as I understand.”

“Horror?” Beatrice frowned. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the genre.”

“Suspense,” Aziraphale filled in after a long drink of wine. “Frightening tales and adventures.”

“Oh heavens, I can’t even imagine,” Beatrice returned, fanning herself lightly. “It sounds like the most wicked and vile of trades, being an author. He must have lived a very debased life. Sin begets sin, I always say. I suppose you’ve had no luck winning him over to the fold.”

Evan harrumphed into his bowl of soup. “Hardly. Believe me madame when I say he is an unwelcome addition. If he did sully our consecrated grounds I’m sure his boots would alight.”

Beatrice did not hide her pleased smirk. “I’m certainly glad to hear it. I wouldn’t like my patronage to support less than upright congregants.”

Mr. Gabriel’s face reddened at the thought. “Indeed not, my lady. I could never allow you to besmirch your name in association. You must believe me when I say that man will never darken the church’s doorstep!”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes surreptitiously, biting back a sharp comment about the purpose of Christian redemption, not that he thought Crowley needed it. He looked up to find Lady Beatrice’s eyes locked on him and winced. The woman had an acute radar for insubordination.

“And what do you have to say about this peculiar individual, Aziraphale?” she pressed. Aziraphale could already tell she wanted him to slip up, to say something nice that she could cut down with the rapier’s blade that was her tongue.

“I daresay he left the most distinct impression,” the blonde stated, offering no further elaboration. Fortunately, his husband was eager to please his honored guest with malicious insults.

“He’s absolutely demonic,” Evan jumped in. “The rumors surrounding him are enough for me to judge. I'll relate them to you later as I wouldn't want to put you off your dinner. I tell you, if there was some way - any way - we could run him off I’d jump on it immediately.”

Beatrice lit up and smiled hungrily, causing Aziraphale to shift uncomfortably in his seat. He knew that look...and its implications.

“I’m sure I could assist in that matter,” she suggested. “All plagues have their remedies, you know. Since my dear Mephis de Tartarus passed last year I have rededicated myself to upholding the most virtuous causes. I have been in mourning long enough... In fact, I think I’m feeling particularly social as of late. Perhaps we could arrange a party with this author of yours as the guest of honor.”

Evan’s face twisted into an excited grin. “Why Lady Beatrice...are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” he asked, moving closer.

“Issue invitations for a ball,” she said slyly. “And let me take care of the rest.” Aziraphale didn’t see their fingers intertwine under the table.

-

Aziraphale made good on his promise to visit Anathema the next day, sharing as many details of his acquaintance as he found suitable. Mostly, he wanted to argue Crowley’s case in light of recent developments with his husband and the Lady Beatrice. He felt no little consternation at the thought of their conspiring to bring an innocent man down.

“He must be warned,” Anathema advised as she bound dried herbs together in the kitchen. “You will tell him, won’t you Aziraphale?”

The blonde bit his lower lip. “I simply must,” he agreed. “But I don’t know how to put it delicately.”

“Then don’t,” Anathema hedged. “If he’s going to be prepared he should know the extent of his enemies’ deceit.”

Aziraphale fingered a bundle of lavender, twisting the ribbon around its neck for good measure. “It’s just that...I worry about hurting the man’s feelings. He’s only just arrived and already people are calling for his head. They’ve barely even met him, let alone know anything about him. He really is the most-”

He cut off when he saw the look in his friend’s eyes. There was melancholy there, but also a twinge of perception that made him feel like he’d revealed too much already. “Aziraphale,” she said carefully, “You really are the most loyal of companions. If you say Mr. Crowley is a decent fellow I won’t doubt it. But do speak to him, for his sake and your own. Imagine the guilt you would feel if he showed up totally unawares! You’re too good to trifle with him.”

The blonde stared down at the table, understanding the reprieve she’d granted him by not calling out his keen interest in the writer. Still he’d felt it all the same. “As usual I thank you for your counsel,” he said quietly. “I only wish that you didn’t have to give it.”

Anathema nodded before smiling widely. “Oh! I know just the occasion! Newton is holding a small picnic two days hence. He did mention that he meant to invite Mr. Crowley. You should join us as well. It may be the only chance you’ll get to see him again so soon as I’m sure Mr. Gabriel will be distracted with his guest. I doubt either of them will share an interest in the invitation!”

Aziraphale couldn’t agree more.

-

As his friend predicted, (divined, perhaps) neither his husband nor their houseguest had the remotest inclination to attend Newton’s gathering. Aziraphale was free to strike out on his own. He came to Mr. Pulsifer’s home in the late afternoon, and was thrilled to see the writer already there. He and Newt were deeply engaged in conversation, but both looked up to acknowledge his arrival. Crowley’s gaze lingered a bit longer, granting Aziraphale’s heart a mild infarction.

He found Anathema packing up a large picnic basket on the back lawn, and she explained that they would venture down to the open meadow near the stream behind Newton’s home. Aziraphale had just folded up the picnic blanket when he felt a magnetic presence behind him.

“You’re looking quite well, Aziraphale,” Crowley said softly.

The blonde’s cheeks flushed with pleasure as he turned around. “And you,” he greeted. He was truly happy to see his friend looking refreshed and energetic, given the circumstances of their last meeting. He wondered if the redhead had any memory of it. “How is your novel proceeding?”

“In fits and starts,” Crowley said with a dapper smile. His face was shaded by a large straw hat that looked completely out of place for the man. He seemed to notice Aziraphale looking at it and chuckled. “I see you’re admiring my latest accessory. A gift from Ms. Device to stave off the sun on my...how did she put it? My ghostly pallor.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale giggled. “She does have a way with words.”

“Do I?” the woman herself exclaimed as she stuck a matching hat on top of the blonde’s downy curls. “No use avoiding it,” she cautioned. “If Mr. Crowley would burn, surely you would catch fire under the sun’s sinister glare.”

Aziraphale pouted as Crowley failed to hide a snicker. “Looks like we are both Anathema’s fools today,” he laughed.

The blonde sensed their other friends starting out on the path, but remained glued to the spot. He struggled to begin what would surely be an awkward conversation, and it didn’t take long for the redhead to catch on.

“Something on your mind, angel?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale’s brain tripped over the endearment, the same one that Crowley had used when he was in his cups. If the writer had any qualms about the nickname it was undetectable.

“It’s well…” he attempted. “I’m afraid I am obligated to warn you about something.”

Crowley stared steadily into his eyes. “You have my attention.”

Aziraphale shuffled his boots in the grass, unable to hold the writer’s gaze. “My husband’s patroness has...graced us with her presence as of late. She’s staying for a fortnight and has decided, after speaking to Mr. Gabriel, that she necessitates an introduction to you.”

Crowley smirked. “Well that sounds dreadful,” he joked.

“Anthony,” the blonde cautioned. “She has...designs. A scheme, rather. I’m scared that she wants to lure you into some kind of trap.”

Crowley’s smirk bloomed into a full-grown grin. “And her snare?”

“The Lady Beatrice means to designate you as the guest of honor for a ball to be held at our home,” Aziraphale went on.

The writer moved ever so slightly, dipping toward the blonde as if they occupied a crowded room rather than an expansive lawn. “You mean I’ll get to see where you live?” Aziraphale sucked hard on his tongue. How did Crowley make the simplest question sound intoxicating?

“To your detriment,” he retorted once he'd recovered. “She means to humiliate you. Though I don’t know how, exactly.”

Crowley sighed serenely as he bent Aziraphale’s elbow and hooked their arms together. He began to lead them toward the meadow where they’d last glimpsed Anathema and Newt. Aziraphale couldn’t deny a certain sense of comfort in the gesture. He’d rarely walked in intimate repose with anyone, certainly not Evan, and let alone a dashing gentleman.

“You are overly concerned,” Crowley tutted. “I can hold my own with dowagers and vicars alike. In fact, I mean to accept the invitation, and even welcome it. Keeps my wits sharp to tangle with aristocrats.”

“Oh, Anthony!” Aziraphale panicked. “Say you don’t mean that! She will rip you apart, I’m sure of it!”

Crowley drew up and unlocked their arms, much to the blonde’s disappointment, but he practically radiated when the redhead drew a warm hand up to his cheek. “You are faultless, aren’t you?” he said pensively. “So innocent and tenderhearted. Were there more like you in the world, how different it could be. You don’t need to fear on my account, angel. I’d ask you to put your faith in me.”

Aziraphale trembled under his touch. “You have it,” he assured.

“Good,” Crowley replied. “Then let’s say no more on the subject. It’s a beautiful day, is it not? Let’s go enjoy it and the company of our friends.”

The blonde nodded though his chin wanted to chase after the hand’s departure. If he wasn’t able to deter the redhead, the least he could do was watch out for him when the time came. And he had every intention of doing so.

After reaching their destination Aziraphale spread out the blanket and sat down, fully occupied with surveying the contents of the picnic basket. Further away he spotted Newt and Anathema wading in the stream. Their shoes had been kicked off and they were pointing out different kinds of fish as they swam by. Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile.

“Young love,” he said mindlessly. Crowley appeared beside him, but instead of sitting he sprawled across the blanket like a melting pat of butter.

“Are they?” he asked lightly, seemingly disinterested. “In love, I mean?”

Aziraphale gazed down at the redhead. His straw hat was tilted over his eyes and cast a shadow down the length of his face. Having nowhere else to look, the blonde secretly scanned the length of the writer’s body. He couldn’t fight the memory of the redhead wearing significantly less just a few days prior. Quickly he jammed a piece of cheese into his mouth as a distraction.

“M’ think so,” he spoke with his mouth full and recoiled out of habit. Mr. Gabriel would have admonished him at once for the transgression, but Crowley didn’t seem to mind. Aziraphale swallowed and continued. “Not that either of them knows it, of course.”

He watched the pair kick water at one another as if to confirm the point. Crowley became so still beside him that he thought for a second he’d fallen asleep. Very carefully, Aziraphale leaned back and let himself settle next to his friend.

“Some think love a fantasy,” Crowley drawled, surprising the blonde next to him.

“I take it you don’t,” Aziraphale followed up cautiously, averting his eyes toward the white fluffy clouds.

“I do and I don’t,” Crowley corrected. “It’s a fantasy as far as how beautiful it can be. It hardly seems real when you have it. And when it’s gone...I suppose all fantasies are temporary.”

Aziraphale grimaced. The writer’s voice was so melancholic it shredded his insides to hear. Without thinking, he turned on his side and tilted back Crowley’s hat to reveal his eyes. “Tell me what it’s like...to fall in love.”

The redhead’s expression was open and raw as he turned to mirror his companion’s position. Aziraphale knew that his statement was an admission he couldn’t take back, but he didn’t want to. Of course he wasn’t in love with his husband. Why pretend otherwise?

Crowley sighed as he looked down at Aziraphale’s hand resting in the space between him. “I don’t know if I can describe it,” he said. “It’s an anchor of sorts. Substantial and tireless. Maybe it’s less of a feeling than a sensation.”

The writer reached out and hovered his hand over Aziraphale’s, lingering mere centimeters above. The blonde looked down as the fine hair on his knuckles raised up at the hint of friction. “It’s like energy that flows through the body and becomes supercharged. It builds up an imbalance, causing one to seek out an equal and opposite force in exchange. When you happen upon it...” Crowley’s hand whispered over Aziraphale’s and his skin jolted on contact. They both exhaled in unison. “Only then can you find release.”

Aziraphale tore his gaze away from where they shared the barest of touches to look in the other man’s eyes. They were surprisingly serene and reflective of the bright blue sky overhead, blending them into a deep hazel shade. One could get lost in there, Aziraphale imagined. All too soon the moment ended with the redhead sitting up and digging a dark red out of the picnic basket.

“One should never speak about such things sober,” he said dully as he pulled the cork out with his teeth and spat it into the grass. He took a long drink, draining at least a quarter of the bottle before handing it to the blonde. Aziraphale cleared his throat and snuck frequent glances at the writer, who continued to stare out at the meadow.

“Or at all,” he heard the writer add under his breath.


	6. This Iron Heart

Lady Beatrice suggested a highly recommended quadrille band be delivered from London, and it was arranged. She mentioned a confectioner who made her favorite tipsy cake and that man was subsequently hired. At last, she raved about the resurgence of the Venetian Carnival, and Mr. Gabriel took pains to emulate one for her. Whatever the lady wanted she received, and it did not escape Aziraphale’s notice.

“Do you mean to bankrupt us?” the blonde asked scathingly once they were alone.

“Aziraphale,” Evan answered in a patronizing tone, “We owe everything to Lady Beatrice. She has long been our supportive friend and protector. You could hardly deny a small payback for her assistance all these years.”

“Please just be mindful,” Aziraphale replied while rubbing his temples. Just one more long day and the ball would be over anyways. The event was to be held that very evening.

“I’m going to check in with Lady Beatrice,” Evan said distractedly. “Make sure all the preparations are in order. Did you get your mask?”

Aziraphale nodded wearily and Mr. Gabriel gave him a genuine smile, a rare thing. “Good, good,” the brunette nodded. “I’m off.”

When finally left alone, Aziraphale wandered off to his room and inspected his costume. He’d chosen a mask from the popular Commedia Dell’arte portraying Colombina. It was a beautiful and delicate eye mask dotted with gold, silver, and crystals. A spray of white feathers shot out from one side. Aziraphale had always admired Colombina for her intellect and daring, and found her the perfect fit for his assumed persona. The coat he’d chosen was longer than usual, replete with a cream and gold diamond pattern. He wasn’t used to dressing up in this fashion, but looked forward to surprising Crowley with the unexpected garb.

His anxiety returned as he thought of his friend at the mercy of Lady Beatrice, but he tried to take heart in Crowley’s confidence. Besides, balls were an occasion that called for the utmost decorum. Surely even Beatrice wouldn’t break that taboo. He sighed as he donned his costume all the same.

Aziraphale didn’t see his husband until the party began, and was secretly pleased to him wearing the mask of Brighella, the villain of the Commedia Dell’arte. The blonde knew for a fact that Mr. Gabriel had no interest in the arts, so his choice must have been at random. Certainly the self-styled pastor would never pick something that made him look evil, but that just made it more fun for his husband.

Evan stood next to one he could only assume was Lady Beatrice, who donned the Bauta mask. This full piece covered her entire face, and was the go-to selection for royalty wishing to hide their identities and mingle with the commoners. It was perfectly suited to her monarchical personality. In truth, looking at the pair made Aziraphale realize how deserving they were of each other’s company. He left them to it and went to greet their guests instead.

Perhaps the most enjoyable part of a ball with masks was guessing the wearers behind them. Aziraphale was almost always correct in his assumptions, often looking to the hair or manner of walking to make his determinations. The more guests that arrived and the more inebriated they became added to the confusion and made it more difficult. But there was one who arrived late that could not be mistaken for anyone else.

Rather than wear a mask at all, Anthony Crowley arrived in full face paint. Aziraphale immediate recognized the personage of Pierrot, the tender innocent. His face was mostly white with heavy black rimming his eyes and a single black teardrop falling from one side. A black cap hid away his red locks, and simple black and white suit perfected the look. Aziraphale went to greet him immediately.

“Signore Pierrot,” he said with a low bow.

Crowley gave his friend a once over and smiled appreciatively. “Signora Colombina. Your beauty surpasses description.”

Aziraphale laughed but blushed all the same. “It is good to see you,” he said more quietly, “despite the occasion.”

“And what an occasion!” Crowley remarked. “You’ve truly outdone yourselves! I can see your home is beautiful even without the added decor, but it is marvelous.”

“Mostly Mr. Gabriel’s doing,” Aziraphale admitted. “And Lady Beatrice’s instruction.”

This drew a chuckle out of the writer, who marked the implied meaning. “I suppose I should look into the lion’s mouth sooner rather than later,” he said. “Perhaps you can point her out to me.”

“I’d rather not,” Aziraphale countered. “In fact, are you sure you don’t want to escape? We could run off together, you know. Head to the local pub and spend our evening much more pleasantly.”

Crowley fixed him with a mirthful frown. “And miss all this? I hardly think so.”

Aziraphale was about to follow up with a witty retort when the music stopped suddenly. Couples that had been dancing cleared the floor to reveal the singular personage of Lady Beatrice.

“Our hostess, no doubt!” Crowley remarked under his breath.

“Forgive my brief intrusion of our festivities,” the small woman began. “But we can’t forget to give a warm welcome to our guest of honor, Mr. Anthony Crowley. Since his arrival, I’ve heard nothing but his name, and I’m quite put out by the persistence of a man I’ve never met. This evening brings recompense as well as peace of mind for myself, and no doubt many of you. I must ask Mr. Crowley to join me presently to ask pardon for his offense.”

The crowd chuckled and the writer held up a hand eagerly. “I’m here!” he cried out. He strutted toward the hostess while over-emphatically swaying his hips. His saunter was positively scandalous and drew all eyes his way if they weren’t there already.

“Lady Beatrice,” he said grandly as he kissed her hand and bowed low. “I can’t begin to apologize, so maybe I’ll defer altogether.”

Aziraphale laughed along with their guests. If Beatrice wanted a win a game of wits she’d backed the wrong horse.

“Such abhorrent manners!” she shot back, an icy smile on her lips. “But then I’ve heard such shocking things about you I should feign surprise.”

Crowley gave a grand shrug before turning in a circle to address the room. “My lady, I assure you they’re all true.” This time the audience went wild and clapped fervently. Aziraphale was sure he’d escape unscathed.

“Are they?” Lady Beatrice asked, but something in her tone had changed. “So much hangs on a man’s reputation. I’d hate to see yours in the gallows.”

Crowley stilled and held a hand over his heart. “My lady would grieve me?”

“That and more,” she smiled, baring her teeth. “I’d give you a proper Christian burial.”

A few confused laughs came from the crowd while Aziraphale’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. She was working toward something…

For the first time Crowley provided no commentary, and instead put his hands on his hips and tilted his head at the woman, waiting.

“Our community was built on faith you see...” she continued after a beat. “And only keeps the most virtuous company. Allow me to be the first to elucidate our moral code. I’m sure you’ve had no proper introduction given your inability to attend Sunday services. We don’t hold with sinners, liars, and conmen. Thieves also, are not welcome here. Gluttons and the vainglorious may be tolerated, but never a violent man. In fact, there’s one we abhor above all the rest, though I haven’t mentioned him explicitly yet.”

Crowley pulled off his cap and drew a hand through his long red hair. The silence in the room was painful. He took a step back, fumbling slightly as his brows met his hairline.

“You speak of murderers,” the writer stated, his voice emotionless.

Lady Beatrice began to circle him like a predator on the hunt. “Like so many you write about in your books, I’ve heard. Never read them of course. Tell me, what kind of man would take such a strong interest in the subject? And why?”

Crowley flipped his cap over in his hands, studying the brim. “Perhaps one who takes a study of human nature and wishes to publish his findings.”

“You are no scientist,” the woman retorted. “You are an entertainer. So then I must ask myself about your particular amusements and their origin. Have you an explanation for that?”

Aziraphale began to push at the people in front of him, desperate to stop whatever was coming next, but it was like beating at the neverending waves of the ocean. “Make a path!” he demanded to deaf ears.

“You might as well ask the Romans about the Colosseum, my lady. Or the Round Table of their jousts. If my work has caused true offense-”

“Like I said, I’ve never read it,” Beatrice interrupted. “But still I have learned more of you than I like. Pray, Mr. Crowley...do all authors draw from experience or are you a novelty in that fashion? Surely with so singular a past it must bear on your writing. Or perhaps it is as autobiographical as it seems.”

Aziraphale had finally broken past the crowd and had been striding forward when he froze in place. Lady Beatrice’s accusation hung in the air like an executioner's axe. 

“My lady,” the redhead said finally. “I can absolutely assure you...that you are one hundred percent, unabashedly, correct.” He gave a tight bow before turning on his heel and walking out the back door toward the balcony.

Whispers erupted in the room. “Could it be?” “I heard it was an accident...yet he said it himself!” “Have we invited a murderer into our midst?” “That man is a demon in Satan’s service!!”

Lady Beatrice crossed her arms triumphantly. The look she gave Aziraphale as he chased the writer was as malicious as it was haughty. It was exceedingly difficult for the blonde to keep moving. There were many things he dearly wanted to say to that woman, but right now he had other priorities.

As he made it to the large glass doors the band struck up again, an uncomfortably jolly tune as if to erase the last several minutes. He clenched his teeth angrily. Of course the party would go on.

“Anthony...” he said as gently as he could once he’d stepped outside. The writer was turned away from him and bracing on the railing. As Aziraphale approached he realized Crowley’s face was hidden from him by a cascade of red hair.

“Anthony please...you mustn’t let Lady Beatrice get to you. Her accusations are totally baseless!” the blonde comforted.

Crowley stood up and revealed a completely passive expression. “Aziraphale…” he breathed out. “What she said was true. I can’t deny it. In fact, I’m glad you know, and all of them. I’m a dangerous man.”

“Shut up,” his friend reprimanded. “I won’t listen to it. Whatever happened that day-”

Crowley cut him off with a look. The blank stare twisted into agony, and a single tear fell to match the one painted on his face. “What happened that day was my fault. I don’t expect you to understand that. You are far too naive.”

Aziraphale ignored the insult but the catch in his tone was telling. “Enlighten me.”

“Lucas…” the writer said haggardly, admitting the name like a curse. “It was he and I against the world. We were so young, but I knew better. I lived in the real world of shit and mud and spite while he was a prince in a gilded cage. I took him out like a toy to play with, always promising to put it back but then looting it instead, a selfish, greedy thing.

I tempted him to all his faults. I convinced him that lust and the abandonment of duty was freedom, and he followed me to his end. We ran like fugitives when we both had families that wept in our absence, his more than mine. Maybe I was jealous of him all along. Stealing him was its own kind of revenge. So you see I am a sinner, and a liar, and a conman as she said.

There was a storm that night when we ascended into the mountains. It was raining and the trails were treacherous. Yet I plied him with more and more drink. I pulled on him as I sang and gamboled as if there was no danger ahead, but even I could see the path grow narrower. Faster, I urged him. If we went fast enough we could outrun the storm. I told him if we both believed...used all of our willpower to imagine...then we could make anything happen.

One of the horses cried out when a misplaced hoof caught the edge of the cliff. It banked off to the right and Lucas turned with it. An experienced driver could have made the correction, but a drunk aristocrat…

The fall lasted so long. I can’t tell you what I saw, or even what I felt. My body went into shock and to this day it won’t let me remember all the details. Blessed are the forgetful. But when I landed, rolling on a grassy knoll, I took stock of my surroundings through flashes of lightning. The horses had perished, obviously. I was glad I didn’t have to shoot them and end their suffering. But I found Lucas far away from the wreckage.

I’m no medical doctor but I knew a snapped neck when I saw one. It was then that I realized I was walking. I was conscious. I was...I didn’t have a scratch on me. Can you believe that? No broken bones and no significant abrasions. I was a miracle, by all accounts. But I knew the truth of it. I knew that deep down I was ill-starred. I knew I was damned. I had been placed on this earth with only one objective: to cause trouble and mayhem wherever I roamed.”

Aziraphale listened to every word without interjection and didn’t take note of when his arms encircled Crowley’s waist. He held him from behind, cheek pressed to the writer’s upper back. He swayed them both gently.

“Not all murders take place with a weapon or poison,” Crowley continued. “But in this case I was both of those things. Lady Beatrice is a cruel, heartless woman, but she can see me for what I really am.”

“No,” Aziraphale objected, his voice barely above a whisper. “No, no.”

“Don’t,” the redhead demanded as he freed himself of the comforting hold. He took a few steps back and shook his head. “Just don’t.”

Without another word, Crowley walked away and vanished into the night.


	7. Three Eloquent Words

Aziraphale was panicking. He turned left, then right, yet still managed to be stuck on the balcony. He cursed under his breath and steeled his nerves, trying to get a tenuous grip on the situation. He needed a plan of action. Obviously Crowley was in a terrible state and shouldn’t be left alone. Aziraphale didn’t think he would harm himself on purpose but it was better to be safe than sorry. Quickly he finalized his decision and sprinted back inside and up to his room, ignoring the clamoring guests.

He exchanged his costume for something more sensible for a late night ride and had just walked out into the hallway when a curious sound arrested his attention. Hushed voices were coming from Mr. Gabriel’s room. He stopped and craned his head at a crack in the door just in time for a shuddering gasp to echo from the interior. Glaring slightly, he pushed open the door and froze at the sight in front of him.

Lady Beatrice was in a state of undress, her waist encircled by Evan’s greedy hands. Aziraphale’s husband’s face dug into the crook of her neck and they were laughing, facing away from the door.

“We took care of that problem, my love,” Beatrice cackled. “Now we only have to get rid of your bumbling husband and we can be together.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said loudly, startling the amorous couple. Evan jumped away from the woman and crossed his arms awkwardly while the lady grabbed the closest curtain to shield her exposed midriff.

“Aziraphale!” the pastor censored. “What on earth are you doing up here?”

“I’d ask you the same but your recreations are evident,” the blonde said placidly. “Please let me save you the trouble of incriminating yourselves further. It’s...embarrassing, really.”

For the first time in his life, Aziraphale held power over his husband, and he planned to use it. He stepped inside the room and shut the door behind him before seating himself in the closest chair. His rivals continued to stand, awaiting their sentence.

“Really, I don’t care what you two get up to,” Aziraphale began. “But I can think of many in our community who would. Particularly after that rousing morality play you executed downstairs. I don’t believe lust or infidelity were mentioned explicitly, but perhaps you left them out for a reason.” He shot a pointed look at Lady Beatrice, who averted her eyes with blazing cheeks.

Aziraphale took a moment of consideration before he continued. “Let me explain to you what is going to happen. Firstly, the pair of you will relocate anywhere else you desire outside of Britain. Whether you continue this unholy union or not is entirely up to you. Mr. Gabriel will grant me this house and its servants, a healthy annuity, and anything else I need to remain comfortable in Oxfordshire. He will also grant me a private divorce on the grounds of adultery, but the records will be sealed. I shall tell our neighbors, in good time, that you went on a mission trip to some far-reaching continent and were lost at sea.

For her part, Lady Beatrice will designate the church and an ample parsonage to Mr. Newton Pulsifer, a far better fit for the charge than Mr. Gabriel ever was. Ah, yes, and one more thing. The lady will issue a public apology for her maltreatment of Mr. Crowley. I believe she consumed more wine than intended during the affair. Perhaps the grief over her former husband had not yet abated. If these terms are met, then no one will ever know of the scandal you have perpetuated. I believe you both know the alternative should you refuse.”

Evan and Beatrice were stunned to silence, and neither dared move from their present locations in the room. Noting this, Aziraphale stood from his seat. “I’ll leave you to make your deliberations. I expect an answer tomorrow afternoon.”

With that, the blonde turned on his heel and made his way to the stable to procure a horse. Seeing it saddled and readied, he wasted no time in mounting the creature and directing it toward Infernus House. “Swiftly, my friend,” he urged. “We’ve no time to spare!”

-

Mr. Mot answered the door with rare punctuality, as if he’d been expecting the blonde. One precise look at his anxious face secured Aziraphale’s hunch, and he rushed inside without prompting.

“Where is he?” he asked in a rush.

The butler set off with Aziraphale in tow, and he couldn’t help but expect the worst. It hadn’t been more than an hour, but that might be long enough for the writer to do something stupid. They made their way to Crowley’s bedroom and Mr. Mot nodded, not daring to enter himself. Aziraphale pushed his way in and was immediately paralyzed on the threshold.

His friend was in his bedclothes, the black silk robe around him open and billowing as he stood in front of the large window, his back to the door. A half-empty bottle of bourbon was swinging from one hand.

“It’s no use,” Crowley muttered. “I have no intention of living out my days in misery.”

Aziraphale stepped forward cautiously. “Then perhaps I can make you a better offer,” he provided.

The redhead turned at the sound of his voice. He must have presumed one of his servants had disturbed him instead. With just a quarter turn Crowley’s face was a symphony of pain and self-loathing, but something else shone behind his eyes at the sight of his friend.

“Aziraphale?” the writer asked uncertainly. The room was dark and drink had made him less coherent.

“Anthony,” Aziraphale answered. “I know today has been intolerable. It has ripped old wounds apart and seemingly confirmed all of your worst fears. I cannot begin to tell you the agony your suffering causes me. Especially when I know how baseless it is.”

He took a few cautious steps forward as the redhead turned back toward the window. Aziraphale was reminded of their first acquaintance at Madame Tracey’s. How Crowley had stood at a window much like this, but there had been no danger then. This floor was at least three stories high.

“I wish I’d lived some other life,” the writer lamented before taking a swig from his bottle. “Perhaps if I’d met you instead of Lucas everything would be different now. You would have tamed my wild inclinations. Shown me how to be the man I wanted to be.”

“I would not have,” Aziraphale objected, and that was enough to regain Crowley’s attention for a moment. Aziraphale took another step toward him. “I could not have. To me you are already the man that you should be, though you bear the burden of a tortured soul. Anthony, your wild inclinations as you call them, those are some of the traits I esteem the most. Your passion, your daring, your creativity. I don’t want you to change or alter yourself for my pleasure or anyone else’s.”

“How can I hear such things and refuse to believe them?” Crowley asked morosely.

Aziraphale finally closed the distance between them and turned the redhead to face him full on. “Maybe you don’t have to believe them,” the blonde answered. “Maybe you only have to believe in me. You asked me to put my faith in you, as I recall. Can you do the same?”

Crowley’s eyes filled with tears and they poured freely as he regarded his friend. “Sometimes I think you’re all I believe in. But I can’t believe your sentiments will hold to me, knowing what I’ve done.”

Aziraphale reached out for his hand and squeezed it gently. “I know exactly what you’ve done. But it’s time to recognize that it wasn’t your fault. You don’t hold sway over the universe and its inhabitants, Anthony. If you did the world would be a very different place, wouldn’t you agree?”

The redhead nodded once and dropped his bottle on the floor. The now freed hand reached up to comb through white-blonde curls, and circled around to Aziraphale’s cheek. “There are some things I wouldn’t change. I wish I could say what I really wanted to say. If I could form words eloquent enough to do you justice. If only I deserved you.”

His mouth moved precariously close to the blonde’s, hovering at the edge of some invisible boundary.

“Anthony,” Aziraphale said firmly but not unkindly. His hands reached up to cradle the sides of the redhead’s face. “You are loved. You are forgiven. And you are enough.”

A soft guttural noise wrenched from the back of Crowley’s throat as he leaned in. “I stand here looking at the man I love and think just for once, the demons of my past could die. Who could stand up to that holy light? Your perfection... Aziraphale, I have ached for you! If only you were mine-”

The author was not allowed to speak any further. Aziraphale’s lips silenced him and kissed him with abandon. Crowely responded feverishly, his tongue dipping into the blonde’s warm mouth to taste him fully. Aziraphale’s hands moved toward the redhead’s hips and grasped tightly before walking him back toward the bed. Crowley fell when his calves hit the mattress and Aziraphale followed, his hot breath moving over the writer’s exposed neck.

“I am yours,” the blonde insisted, his fingers working over Crowley’s bare chest, charting the expanse of soft skin and hard muscle. “I caught Gabriel with Beatrice and have asked for a divorce. Do you understand what I’m saying my love?”

Crowley looked up at him, his eyes wide and pleading. “We...we can be together?” he asked, his voice more of a ragged sob or a whimper.

“We are together,” Aziraphale groaned as his groin pressed into Crowley’s, eliciting a sharp gasp from the writer. “From this day forward I’ll never part from you. I will cherish and love you, protect you from anything that might harm you...even yourself. But promise me I won’t have to.”

“No, not with you by my side,” Crowley vowed, his hands pushing into Aziraphale’s curls and squeezing tight. “You are my strength.” His lips moved up and claimed the blonde’s once more.

Aziraphale grabbed the redhead’s knees and pushed him up the bed, climbing on after him. They laid side by side, kissing languidly and whispering promises to one another. “I love you,” the blonde said reverently.

“Tell me again,” Crowley begged as Aziraphale grabbed his thigh and hooked it over his hip. “Say you love me.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale murmured into the dip of Crowley’s clavicle. “I love you,” he said in a firm voice as he kissed down his sternum. His tongue drew a line toward the writer’s belly button and his teeth nipped just barely at the divet. “Anthony Crowley,” he whispered. “I’m so madly in love with you.”


	8. The Tell-Tale Heart

Crowley pulled Aziraphale up the length of his body to kiss his lips, his face, his hair, anywhere he could reach. The feeling of having him in his arms at last was nearly too much, every part of his body on fire.

“Aziraphale, my angel” he whispered over and over again.

The blonde’s head ducked to lathe over his nipple, nip the skin under his peck and then scrape his teeth down the side of his torso. He bit at the bone of his hip, and in one smooth motion yanked down his pants, leaving him bared in nothing but an open black robe. Aziraphale stared down at him as he tore off his own cravat and undid the buttons on his vest.

“Look at you,” he cooed, his voice unsteady. “God I want you. And once I’ve had you I’ll never stop taking you.”

Crowley mewled at the thought, his cock twitching under scrutiny. He shifted his hips up into the air even though Aziraphale was too far away to touch. His own hand reached down to relieve the pressure but Aziraphale’s voice was stern. “No,” he commanded. “Let me please you.”

Crowley stretched his hands up over his head and fisted in the sheets to resist the temptation. “Please,” he begged. Aziraphale wasn’t undressing fast enough and he realized it was purposeful. The blonde only unbuttoned half of his shirt before leaning down to kiss along the redhead’s length, his mouth wet and teasing.

“Darling,” Crowley half-growled. “You’re killing me!”

Aziraphale let out a warm chuckle before taking his lover into his mouth fully, sucking on the length while groaning as if he were enjoying the most delicious treat. Crowley let out an embarrassing sob of pleasure and chased the blonde’s mouth with the thrust of his hips. In response Aziraphale dug his nails into the redhead’s hard thighs and scratched down the length of them.

“You’re so perfect,’ Aziraphale praised between urgent strokes with his tongue. “And you’re mine.”

“Oh god!” the writer cried out. “Please, I can’t take it! I can’t..”

Aziraphale mercifully pulled off and undid the clasps of his pants. “Turn around,” he said in a deep, almost dangerous voice. Crowley complied only to have his body shoved forward by the force of Aziraphale’s face in the cleft of his ass. Crowley’s head fell into the mountain of bunched sheets he’d created in his frenzy, gasping desperately into the pile. It had been so long, and under this onslaught he barely stood a chance. He could hardly believe that it was Aziraphale, his sweet, demure Aziraphale doing this to him.

The blonde held him by the hips and fucked him with his tongue until all Crowley could do was whimper. He only relented to slide two fingers in to the knuckle in place of his mouth.

“There you are,” Aziraphale noted as he found the spot he’d been looking for, his voice rough and unrecognizable. “God you’re so ready for me. Tell me how long you’ve wanted this.”

Crowley bucked forward, drawing out the sensation. “Forever,” he gasped. “Since I first saw you.”

“And is this what you imagined?” the blonde asked, twisting his fingers slightly before adding a third.

“Yes!” Crowley cried out, his voice came out mangled and in bursts. “I wanted you to...push me on the table in the library and...have me right there...with your husband in the next room.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale tutted. “Your creative mind has been at work.” He slid out his fingers and flipped the redhead over once again, admiring his handiwork. Crowley was panting, covered in a sheen of sweat, barely able to function. “And now you’re a mess, aren’t you?”

Crowley whined untouched on the bed. He stared into Aziraphale’s eyes, practically starving for him. “You know what I imagined?” the blonde asked before biting his lower lip and beginning to stroke himself. Crowley’s voice hitched as he watched. “Tell me.”

“I thought about how you’d cry out for me. Scream my name and pull my hair. I thought about your hips stuttering around me and your eyes rolling back in your head as I fucked you senseless.”

“Please,” Crowley begged again, his arms straining toward the blonde. Aziraphale smirked and steadied himself on the edge, barely touching the willing opening he’d created.

“Once more,” Aziraphale insisted, teasing Crowley’s entrance.

“Fuck! Please! Aziraphale, I need you!” the redhead sobbed.

The blonde pushed into him once, slicking all the way to the hilt and both groaned with the effort. Crowley stiffened every limb in his body as he tried not to come. It was too good, but he wanted it to last. Aziraphale must have felt the same because he refused to move, instead stroking over the writer’s ink-smeared palms.

“This is us,’ Aziraphale said softly. “This is how it will feel for the rest of our lives.” He pulsed inside of the redhead and withdrew only to inch back in. Crowley shuddered under him. “I’ll never stop loving you,” he promised. “And if you ever begin to forget…”

Aziraphale stared down at him with his piercing blue eyes, and then he began to fuck his lover in earnest. Crowley’s breath hitched and he knew he wouldn’t last, not like this, not with his angel’s eyes roving over him, tearing him apart thread by thread. He lifted his hips to rock with the motion, taking in one burning lungful of air before his body focused every attention to where they joined together. His orgasm was so intense he brought Aziraphale with him, and the pair rode through it long after it subsided. The blonde was so amped up all he could do was stand frozen on the spot, so Crowley reached up to him and threw his arms around his lover’s waist, face buried in his chest and breathing hard.

“I…” Aziraphale tried to speak but couldn’t make his voice cooperate. He tangled his fingers into the red curls under his chin and pulled weakly.

Below him Crowley began to chuckle. “That was...worth writing about,” he said.

The blonde laughed through panting breaths. “Perhaps the subject of your next book?”

Crowley leaned back and looked at Aziraphale appreciatively. “That’s all I need to solidify my reputation,” he joked. “And they thought horror was scandalous.”

Aziraphale crawled onto the bed where he could hold his beloved properly. “I never got the chance to finish your first book,” he said thoughtfully.

Crowley sighed as he intertwined their fingers before kissing each digit. “I believe that can be remedied. But it might get annoying to constantly travel between our residences, don’t you think?”

The blonde stared up at the ceiling, a smile at the edge of his mouth. “Indeed. Best put mine up for sale, make way for a new neighbor. Hopefully one as salacious as yourself. I find the countryside much improved with a little drama.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” the writer admitted. “And love. Absolute passion and love.”

-

Mr. Mot entered the library with a knowing look on his face. “A Madame Tracy to see you sir,” he announced. The woman walked in and took a look around before nodding approvingly.

“I see it’s much better stocked than mine Mr. Crowley,” she noted. “It must please you greatly.”

“No Mr. Fell this time?” Aziraphale asked with a grin.

Madame Tracy settled into the armchair next to her friend and shrugged. “Gabriel was never a fitting last name, but I find this one much improved. Though I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale agreed. “If he is. Being proclaimed as ‘lost at sea’ doesn’t necessarily denote his death. Perhaps he’s found some nice desert island on which to live out his days.”

“As long as it’s far away from here with no chance of return,” Tracy smiled mischievously. “I’m sure your new husband does not disagree.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” the redhead piped up as he walked into the room and kissed into Aziraphale’s blonde curls. “I am surprised to see you Madame. I would have thought last night’s festivities wore you out.”

“Indeed not,” Tracy replied. “In fact, I outlasted the lovebirds themselves. Anathema and dear Mr. Pulsifer retired for their honeymoon before I’d danced the quadrille. And then two sets after with Mr. Shadwell besides.”

“That gentleman does dote on you,” Crowley observed.

“Don’t they all?” Madame Tracy asked, eyes wide and coquettish. “But the man never speaks. At my last party...that must have been when you’d first arrived, Mr. Crowley...he merely sat in the corner all night and had no part to play in any of it.”

“I did rather forget he was there,” Aziraphale added. “But then, who would be a better fit for our loquacious friend? He’d never steal attention off of you Madame.”

“We shall see,” Tracy said coyly. “I do rather enjoy single life. And I get to rejoice in the happiness of not one, but two couples in my acquaintance. I consider myself lucky to be amongst such pure love and devotion.”

“When do the Pulsifers return?” Crowley asked. “We were going to give them our wedding present in person but they absconded too early last night.”

Madame Tracy leaned back in her chair and counted on her fingers. “At least a fortnight,” she mused. “I believe Newton wanted to have some headway before his first sermon. Amazing that Lady Beatrice granted it to him in light of Evan’s disappearance. I didn’t think the woman charitable or warmhearted in the least.”

“The world works in mysterious ways,” Aziraphale said knowingly. His husband squeezed his shoulder and they shared a secret smile between them.

“They’ll want to hurry back, of course,” Madame Tracy hinted, but left it there to enhance the dramatic announcement.

Aziraphale stifled a laugh. “Pray tell, Madame Tracy. It sounds as if you have some news you’ve yet to share.”

Tracy’s eyes darted around the room as if the walls had ears. “Well this I’ve heard from Anathema herself, but she has sworn me to secrecy, so now you must both be similarly sworn.”

Crowley covered his smile with his hand. “But of course, Madame. We swear it on our lives.”

“It is said that someone is looking into letting your previous residence, Aziraphale,” she confided.

Having long since deeded the estate to the town Aziraphale had hardly given it any more thought, but this was pleasing news. “Indeed?” the blonde asked. “And I suppose there is some dark circumstance surrounding this new arrival?” He would expect nothing less.

Madame Tracy waggled her eyebrows. “Only the most titillating, of course! They say he is...an artist!”

Crowley fake gasped and was immediately elbowed by his husband.

“Goodness!” Aziraphale covered. “However shall we cope?”

The party spoke at length about the possibility, but all agreed in the end that an artist would prove a positive addition to the present company in Oxfordshire. Where else would a gossip, a curmudgeon, a witch, a pastor, a writer, and of course, an angel find such pleasant society? Well in fact, they simply made their own.


End file.
